


Seasonal Affair

by Zaikyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabbles, Fluff, M/M, Seasons, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:33:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaikyo/pseuds/Zaikyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of four drabbles depicting various pairings in the seasons of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasonal Affair

Spring

  


Gabriel was never one for silence. Silence was the absence of life, of amusement and merriment. Silence was unspoken detachment in the form of circulating chills and diverted attentions. Silence was boring. And so very _not_ Gabriel.

Yet particularly on this day, the young archangel found something vastly different inside his dreaded enemy.

Contentedness.

It was stirring, highly unsettling at first with no sign of dispersing anytime soon. And sure, Gabriel could break it himself; conjure up a list of meaningless topics and reel them off in aimless succession until the day stretched away, or his company resolved to leave out of annoyance. But something in the air was just too curious for Gabriel to do so. Something about this absence of sound felt almost alarmingly natural.

And as Gabriel sat, legs seemingly sinking further into the wet bed of grass beneath his weight, he tried to pinpoint the sense of peculiarity within it.

Maybe it was the breeze; light and playful and _consistently_ random in its passing caresses against the angel's borrowed skin. Or maybe it was the sky; a perfect hue of blue, tastefully spotted with small puffs of white every now and then, and accented greatly by the bright bead in its center, not at all too overbearing. Maybe it was this place; thick streams of vibrant grass running on for miles amidst a plethora of trees which too seemed without end, or the small stream running parallel to the angel's outstretched legs.

Or maybe, if Gabriel allowed himself even the smallest show of honesty in his thoughts, (and that was a rarity, what with his track record of excessive and radical denial and all); it was the company in which he shared this muted pleasure.

It was the long body splayed out across the grass, angled like some kind of human star, not two feet away. It was the tousled brunette hair, dancing to the rhythmless rhythm of the wind like no one in the world was watching. It was that absolutely stupid, perfect curve of subtle satisfaction on those even more perfect lips.

It was every possible thought that could be roaming around in that head of his at this moment, and also the probable likeliness of none at all.

It was Sam, and only Sam who could make even the quietness of the crypt a settling place to be. Sam and everything Sam was, and even everything Sam would be someday. Gabriel was never quite sure of why that was, but maybe it didn't matter so much. This young Winchester seemed to hold the secret to his wandering attention and uneasiness for anything more than casual. If anything, that was enough to keep the archangel speechless for a time.

And yet he wanted to ask; wanted to break the contented silence between them and question so many of the things he'd only begun to think up now. All important, all tapping curiously, urgently at the end of Gabriel's tongue. He could ask. He _should_ ask.

  


But something in the quiet air about them gave him a nudge of patience. To ruin this moment, this silence, would be a shame. God only knew how often days like this would surface. There would always be more apocalypses and hell risings to appear and steal them away from life's little gems such as this. And hell, the first day of spring only came so often. No, he would save his breath for another time. Today, there was a very sweet, very not boring silence, which Gabriel found to be much his style.

  


A soft hum of pleasure escaped hid throat before the angel could even think to stop it. Not very loud at all, but enough to rouse his companion's attention. Sam's eyelids peaked open and he turned, an unidentifiable softness in the action.

"Gabriel?" Practically a yawn. "Something the matter? You've been pretty quiet."

  


But the angel only smiled something almost bashful and shook his head.

"Nah. Just enjoying the company."

Summer

  


He shoves Dean against the wall, strong fingers seizing his wrists in a swift signal of dominance, cock grinding into the curve of Dean's hips; a blunt indication of today's lack of patience.

Sam isn't in the mood to give into his brother's savoring manner of doing things. He's let it fester too long already. That violent itch, that heated insanity; it had scratched at the very center of Sam for hours on end, pounding at the walls of his chest relentlessly. And Sam had asked it to go away, begged it to stop its agonizing screaming in his ears. He and Dean had agreed today would be a day spent to themselves; something Sam had figured they might have needed at one point, but he's second guessing the idea as of now. Yet despite it all, the throbbing inside him resolved to stay, continuing its maddening singsongy taunting of Sam, well into the afternoon.

It's the heat, Sam knows. Sticky and thick in the air; heat could drive a man to the farthest ends of insanity when it broke the scale like it had today. Heat was a catalyst, a wick on fire. And it had finally made its way to Sam's end. He can't take this, not anymore. And he'll make sure Dean is in no position to grapple back control.

A soft red creeps up the surface of his brother's face. "The fuck man, you said you were hot."

Sam resolves to acknowledge that with the hard press of his lips to Dean's mouth. Truth is yes, Sam is very hot. But in an entirely other sense of the word which Dean hadn't at all considered.

Sam takes his elders lip between bared teeth and pinches, sucking in the drops of crimson that surface and run smoothly along the perfect curve of pink flesh. Dean lets out a quiet whimper, something Sam might have used against him on any day other than today. But instead, he lets the sound echo across his eardrums and fuel the already raging burn deep in his stomach.

"Turn around," he practically groans against his brother's mouth, the vibrations of his voice carving ripples into his skin. And Dean obeys, pushing up against Sam's wrists just enough to wriggle free and twist around to face the eggshell colored wallpaper. Sam holds him against it with the whole of his chest, lacing one hand deep into the feathered mess of sweat and strands that is Dean's hair, and fumbling at the hook on Dean's belt with the other. He unlatches the metal clasp and pushes it away, going next for the small handle of his brother's zipper and yanking it down with hurried ease. Dean's breath hitches in his throat as a hand slides past the waistband of his boxers and wraps its strong fingers around the length of him, pulling him free and into the choking humidity.

"Fuck, Sam. _Fuck_."

Sam takes that as it is— Dean's way of urging him onwards— and squeezes around him tightly, tugging at tender flesh with deliberate strokes, letting all mercy fall to the floor along with the elder's jeans. And Dean groans something deep and incoherent, involuntarily fucking into his brother's palm, dick slick with sweat.

Sam needs this now; Dean realizes it as a hand pulls away from his hair and grabs hastily at his own fly. The younger yanks himself out, pressing up against Dean's entrance with something like animalistic possessiveness. There's a small nightstand nearby; Dean reaches over and swipes the small bottle of lotion on top and opens it up, covering his hands and reaching back to coat his brother in the smooth coolness. Sam grunts at the touch and shoves Dean's hands away when he feels he's slick enough, parting Dean with his thumbs and pressing his dick between the soft flesh, easing into his hole. It's tight and warm oh so typical of Dean. He's always tight, though Sam isn't sure why.

But Sam doesn't hardly care much today either as he shoves himself deep inside with one sharp thrust, forcing out a pained cry from his brother's throat. After a moment he pulls himself almost completely out, before spearing inward again, taking every bit of composure his brother had along with it. Sam continues on like that; long, solid thrusts, until a boiling need washes over him, and long becomes short, solid becomes wild, each thrust harder and faster than the last.

They're nearing the end and Dem comes first, splatter coating the wall in front of him with a sticky white. Sam follows shortly after, one more hard thrust into his brother before releasing all over his inside and feeling more than satisfied by that.

  


Dean yawns, naked body splayed out across the bedroom floor, electric fan turned towards his face. "Fuck you, Sammy," he says. "It's hotter than ever now."

And Sam laughs a little, because he knows it's true. But honestly, it doesn't bother him as much as it had earlier. Still, maybe next time they might use ice.

  


Sam can think of so many ways that they could use ice.

Autumn

  


Autumn had a way— an almost mystical way really— of bringing out odd things in Dean Winchester. Something like a subtle softness, yet not necessarily fragility. A blossoming emotive instinct, but nothing too uncharacteristic of the man of stone. Just something about the way the leaves melted into their red and yellow-soaked skins and the air appeared to lose its heaviness on his lungs, brought the hunter to a new place. An easier, more natural place which, on this particular day, so happened to be lovingly entangled in his angels' warm and encircling arms, leant against the trunk of a fading tree. They sat in silence, the rustling of leaves and occasional scurrying of a squirrel providing the only sound about them. Dean felt himself breathing in time with Cas, and wondered when on earth they'd become so in sync. But he resolved to let the thought alone.

  


He had taken it off today— that leather jacket of his— and laid it against the tree in favor of his undershirt. Dean wasn't one to take off that jacket for very many reasons at all, but he had this affinity for the autumn winds; he had to feel them on his skin to truly understand them, to _know_ them like he felt he should. And then of course, those wings grazing lightly across his shoulders and arms were also a factor. Dean was sure he would never truly get used to them. Wide and deep brown, feathers smooth and almost uniform in their alignment; they were breathtaking at worst. The elder Winchester found his fingers laced in them almost constantly, brushing back the few strays and earning a pleasurable sound from their owner. They were a precious sensation, curled around Dean in the form of a feathered arch, and Dean never knew what they were supposed to be, what they were supposed to mean. But maybe that was point. They were just something mystical. A handiwork of God.

Dean had never really thought much of God, other than that he didn't exist, or was the _biggest_ douche imaginable. But lately, his views had begun to slant, just a little. Maybe there _was_ a God. Even more so, maybe he wasn't a _complete_ dick. Because something, someone had to create this wonderful thing surrounding him. This season, and these wings. Someone had think they were just as beautiful as Dean did, and put them on earth to share in their perfection. Someone had to put them within Dean's grasp. And for that,

Well Dean had to be grateful.

  


He felt something stirring inside himself; a burn or a lump as it felt. It wasn't something he felt often, only in the presence of his angelic companion, and only on days like this. It was a powerful feeling, almost violent. It overwhelmed his heart in volumes of raging passion. Dean never liked to label that feeling, though he knew what it was, he preferred to keep it a quiet presence within himself. Besides, he knew he didn't have to say it. Everyone who needed to know, already knew.

  


Another brush of air danced past them and the sound of stirring leaves echoed across the forest floor and high in the trees above them. Dean had no idea why he liked that sound so much, but he absolutely did. He sort of imagined that it might just be how much it reminded him of other things. If he listened long enough, closely enough, it almost sounded like that feeling that Dean refused to name. Which was a stupid thought, but whatever. No one was ever going know how lame his head really was.

  


Autumn had a way of bringing out odd things in Dean Winchester. But they were nice things, happy things. And if he could choose, there would never be any other seasons. And he would never have to leave these arms.

Winter

  


The snow is plentiful in Colorado this time of year, Sam notices as it falls by the quarts outside his apartment window. The skies are an ugly gray composition of densely packed clouds that look as if they've swallowed the sun whole, and may never spit it back up. Outside Sam knows; he knows the winds are merciless and wicked against flesh, knows every intake of air is like a claw to the raw inner hollow of his throat. He knows the temperature wants nothing more than to hug him until he can't feel a thing, and drain the color from his skin. Sam knows this, but he can't seem to care.

Because inside; inside there is warmth. Sam finds it, wrapped up in the tangled sheets with Lucifer's arms twisting round his torso in aim to press his body closer. He finds this strange heat between them. And it _is_ them, not a stitch of clothing to take away the credit. Just skin on warming skin, feeding a murmuring flame somewhere deep between them both.

  


Sam smiles a bit at that, because it's almost kind of stupid, really. The Devil had once said he wasn't warm, that everything roaming through his vessel was cold and hollowed out. Yet that couldn't be further from reality. Sam wasn't sure anyone had ever scorched him to the touch the way Lucifer did. Every graze of fingers, every press of lips eradicating and electrifying in the most otherworldly sense. It was almost unfair.

  


Drops of icy white continue to tap at their bedroom window, and Sam curls instinctively closer to the body draped around him. And those arms, stronger and more loving than anything remotely acceptable, tighten— just a bit— over him. There's a soft press of lips to the back of Sam's ear and he knows what it means, knows it articulates more than anything words could ever begin to explain.

Eventually, Sam will have to venture outside. There will _always_ be reasons for him to go out into the cold and give himself to the harshness of the storm. But after all is said and done, scars and blood cut and shed as is to be, Sam will always come back to something warm.

  


There will always be a home for Sam, right inside the Devil's embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> You don't even want to know the kind of day I've had trying to get this formatted properly. 
> 
> I just... I don't even anymore.


End file.
